Nick's Bottom
by Ellislash
Summary: Young Will Shakespeare "warps in" on Nick and Ellis backstage. Was it time travel, or just really good beer? Utter and complete nonsense crack. AU, NxExShakespeare, coarse language, sexual content. The boys belong to Valve, and the Bard is probably rolling in his grave.


Twenty-first century New York City is, depending on your perspective, either the best or the worst place to pop out of a six-hundred-year time warp. Which it is depends largely on which direction you're coming from; travelers from the future tend to adjust much faster than travelers from the past. Young Will, however, was as lucky as a lad from the 1500s could get, and came screaming out of the time vortex smack dab in the middle of Gershwin Theater. In the prop room, in fact. Perched on a large and hideously ornate Victorian chamber-pot.

The first thing he noticed was not the chamber-pot, nor the rack of stage weapons against the far wall. The first thing he noticed was the pair of men in the middle of the room, half-undressed, very obviously _not_ fighting over the headset crackling on the floor – not that Will had any idea of what a headset was. Not that he cared. Both of the men were fit and muscular and sweating and... _beautiful._

Beautiful, and looking at him.

There was a very pregnant pause, which was not silent only by virtue of a cheering, not-so-distant audience.

The fairer, younger one scuttled backwards in shock, leaving the older man in black to wince violently and hastily yank up his pants.

"Whut in th' _hell_...?"

"Who the fuck are you and how the fuck did you get in here?" the darker fellow demanded, in a strange accent as harsh as the other's was soft. Will blinked, a bit distracted by the southward flow of his blood and unable to muster his usually whip-fast wit.

"Ah, I... I beg your pardon, good sirs..." he stammered, grateful that at least his manners had survived the trip. And he must have taken a trip, because nary a minute ago he'd been at his favorite pub with a pint and a fresh-baked roll.

"Who th' hell are yew?" the younger one growled, wrestling with his ornate garments. Will blinked again, recognizing something familiar at last.

"William, sir... If I may?" he offered timidly, reaching for the red-and-gold fabric that hitherto was utterly failing to remain in place.

"Hey, yew... Yew new in wardrobe or somethin'? Ain't never seen yew before," the youth asked awkwardly as Will rapidly fastened his clothes.

"No, whoever he is, he's not supposed to be here," the older man snapped, grabbing the hissing device off the floor with a look that would stop the Queen's guard in their tracks. He settled it over his disheveled hair and growled into the microphone as he stalked – rather stiffly – out the door. "Security to storeroom D. Some nutcase got in off the street. One of you jackasses deal with it, willya?"

The time traveller tied a last knot and stared after him, unaware of his blush, mind thoroughly occupied with a mental image of the beast with two backs. That dark-haired man had looked positively ecstatic, "on the bottom" as it were, writhing with pleasure that William desperately wished he could share…

"Uh," the remaining fellow coughed awkwardly, shuffling his feet. The intruder jumped.

"I… My word, I'm terribly sorry, sir… If thou wouldst be so kind as to direct me to Stratford-upon-Avon, I shall leave at once..!"

"Sorry, man, I gotta be onstage in three minutes," he said with a grimace. "Nick called fer somebody already, th' stagehands c'n help ya out."

"Nick? Would that be the name of thy, ah… lov-"

"Yeah, yeah, him," the actor interrupted, flushing to match his costume and rubbing uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "He's Nick, I'm Ellis, and I'd really 'preciate if ya didn't say nothin' 'bout this ta anybody. Like, ever. Okay?"

"Of course not, milord," William assured him with a small bow. "I too have secrets the like of thine, and I would reveal them to nary a soul!"

"Well… thanks." Ellis said, then gave him a curious look. "Waitaminit, yew tellin' me yer queer too? Uh, gay. Ya like men?" He clarified, as the modern use of the term seemed to have been lost on the stranger. At last Will perked up.

"Alas, 'tis a curse I bear most willingly," he confirmed with a flirty little smile. "Pardon my forwardness, milord Ellis, but thou'rt a man young William would glad be curs't for thrice over."

"Now ain't that somethin'," the actor said, tilting his head to the side in approval. He took a step forward, and suddenly the time traveller felt giddy as a lady-in-waiting. "When th' crew lets ya out, wait fer me by th' door," Ellis whispered roughly in his ear. "Nick's jus' grouchy 'cuz yew surprised him, but he'll come 'round. We like meetin' new friends in bed…"

And suddenly their lips were hot together, and William could taste Heaven's own ambrosia on the young man's tongue, and the room spun around him…

* * *

"Master William! Do wake up, the sun is well past the yardarm and ye simply _must_ read what Robert Green has written about ye this time…"

Late afternoon light poured into his eyes, and the nagging voice of the tavern wench pierced his ears. She chattered as she cleaned the room he'd let at the inn – he must have passed out drunk last night, but he didn't remember a thing.

"Liza," he mumbled, rubbing at his face, "Zounds, girl, be silent! My head is split in twain."

"Pish, sir, ye did not listen when Martin told ye to stop with Brannigan's special ale," Liza scolded. "And the landlord would remind ye, rent was due a week past already. 'Tis a pain ye rightly deserve!"

She dropped some parchment on the table and flounced out of the room, much to Will's relief. He sat up in bed and stared out the window, looking out over the muddy streets where crowds swirled past each other in the late July sun. He'd been having such a nice fantasy, why did that dumb broad have to go and wake him…?

"Master _William_! Christopher wants his money!"

"Faith, wench, be still!" he roared back through the door, and grudgingly got out of bed. The details of his imaginary liaison were already growing faint, though a few facets clung – a name here, a rousing image there. Alas… they were destined to fade away, mere ghosts left behind by his drunken midsummer night's dream.


End file.
